“For you to do what you’re good at, she’s going to have to change some of what she does,” Mrs. Matthews said. “She’s going to have to consult with someone else sometimes, instead of being the High Queen. I know you’re feeling like you exploded your whole life to be here, but you’re not the only one whose whole life was just exploded. There are a lot of moving parts.” She broke off four small balls of dough and arranged them on the counter. One was in the center, and the other three circled it. “If you stop seeing yourself as the center of this story,” she continued, moving the middle ball out so that all four made up a circle, “and start seeing all of you as an interdependent web, whose actions all affect each other, you’ll have a better time empathizing with your cousin.”

Looking down at the dough under her hands, ready to rise, Miriam reflected that a lot of the hurt of the past ten years might have been mitigated if she’d remembered to take herself out of the center of the story.

“Do you want me to come back when this is rested, to braid it?” Miriam asked.

“When was the last time you braided a challah?” Mrs. Matthews replied seriously. “It’s fine. I’ll braid it. You can come back and Instagram it.” Mrs. Matthews shooed her away from the counter with a kiss.

“Are you done lecturing her?” Mr. Matthews asked, coming in through the outside kitchen door. “Can I come inside now?”

“Fine, fine, you can come in. Wipe your boots,” she said to her husband. Miriam had always ached to have a love like theirs, with old worn-down arguments they’d had a million times. She slipped out while they were swatting lovingly at each other.

Hannah was lying in wait for Miriam in her room when Miriam went up to bed, sitting in the armchair by the fire, her knees drawn up to her chin. It was hard to have privacy when you lived in a hotel, and everyone had keys. Hannah’s cheeks were tear-streaked, and the knees of her leggings had little wet spots on them. She motioned for Miriam to sit down, and Miriam didn’t argue. Hannah hadn’t cried much when they were kids. She had a quick temper, but she was more likely to write a list of possible solutions for heartache than cry about it.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” Hannah admitted. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“You finally broke?” Miriam guessed.

Hannah hiccupped a laugh and started to cry again.

“Do you still want to yell at me?” Miriam asked. “You can, if it will make you feel better. You’re allowed to have a complicated emotional response to me being back.”